#Open Concept Nightmare

[samw3000]

Workplace Satire: The Sound of Emails & The Black Hole of Productivity

… So I said, “Two black guys did it, officer. It’s always one or two black guys, and they all look alike. Just arrest anybody. Common now.” My shitty work life So … I must get this off my chest. My boss gets upset when we don’t go to the office; he will complain to me when my co-worker is not there, and I assume he does the same thing to my co-worker when I’m not there. (why would I expect him��

[yellydany]

Nightmare Scarecrow Design commission🍂🐦

[allbeendonebefore]

Every weekend I think finally some time to spend by myself being creative and my parents are like let's turn on every single thing that makes noise in the house and then have conversations over them

[toytulini]

victorian style haunted house that has dysphoria about not being an open concept minimalist hellhole, before we even have those, so it doesnt know why it just feels sooo miserable and has to lash out at everyone inside it, so its wretched and haunted the whole time, until its finally bought by a house flipper in the 2020s who knows JUST how to fix it

[mosstrades]

"drunk ama" is weak. catastrophically hungover ama

[meatcute]

whenever i see the debate about ai art come up i always think of my favorite video on youtube (whos afraid of modern art by jacob geller). it's so ahead of its time considering ai art doesnt become a seriously considered topic of discourse until quite recently, but each point he makes, from the idea that "art must take a long time and labor to make to have value" to the anger and outrage people feel about "new" art, hits so home. like you see people talk about the concept of ai art in itself with such vitriol, when it's literally a medium. like i dont like the vapid "smooth big boob anime girl" garbage that people pump out either nor do i respect art thieves, but are either of those really ai art exclusive or are we just mad that the definition of art is being expanded rather than constricted. are we just upset because elitism is being challenged by something new. ykwim?

[laudrawin]

Satyr adopt WIP 🥰

[keferon]

Sigh. I wasn’t strong enough to stop. I wrote a fic too

———————————

Pilots have to be constantly monitored by special people who are trained to do diagnostics. Not just medics. Scientists, engineers. There's a surprising number of things that can go wrong with a person hooked up to a machine.

The thing is.

The procedure is designed to help.

Jazz isn't sure Prowl is getting help.

Organics are fragile.

Most of the ones Jazz had met were, at least. Flesh is more susceptible to environmental influences than metal. Flesh accumulates damage faster, both external and internal. It often generates it itself.

The processes and causes are often a mystery to Jazz, but he's familiar with the general concept.

Organics are fragile.

That's why Jaz isn't very surprised by the crowds of medical personnel scurrying around a human military base.

As Prowl explained to him, humans don't have the built-in ability to open a HUD and perform self-diagnostics. Most of the time all you get is a vague signal in the form of pain in the injured area or nausea or changes in body temperature and things like that.

Pilots have to be constantly monitored by special people who are trained to do diagnostics. Not just medics. Scientists, engineers. There's a surprising number of things that can go wrong with a person hooked up to a machine. It's weird for Jazz. He's used to coming in for physical exams only when something's obviously wrong. Pilots are supposed to get checks just in case anything about them in theory could start breaking down in the future.

The thing is.

The procedure is designed to help.

Jazz isn't sure Prowl is getting help.

He spots the scientist in purple pretty quickly. A crowd of white-haired pilots is a nightmare to identify but this particular organic catches his attention almost instantly.

He's quite...extravagant looking. And he's practically glued to Prowl. They're involved in something together that Jazz isn't sure about, but Prowl looks...wobbly...when he returns from his visits to Tarantulas. And not in a funny way.

Tarantulas holds a special interest in Prowl. Special access, too. Whenever Prowl is injured, Tarantulas is the one who must be contacted immediately. Prowl's mech system needs an upgrade - Tarantulas must be consulted.

Tarantulas slips into the crevices and oozes between the plates. His hands are all over Prowl's personal space and Jazz doesn't really know what he should do about it because Prowl apparently doesn't mind.

Tarantulas dictates what he can and can't eat. What medications he should take and what software he should use.

Tarantulas gives him these little white bracelets with the information he writes on them for the other medics, because Prowl is special for some reason and only Tarantulas has instructions for him.

Knockout wipes his hands with some kind of special napkin and jerks his head around

“If you're looking for Prowl, he's in the labs for a physical.”

Jazz pretends this information is as mundane to him as it is to everyone else on this base

“Why can't you or the other medics examine him?”

“None of us have time to deal with the creepy experiments Prowl is constantly involved in” snorts Knockout ”Last time I checked his blood could dissolve plastic. Haha figuratively of course! Don't look at me like that!”

Jazz smiles, but there's no friendliness behind that smile

“Is this scientist doing experiments on Prowl?”

“Ah. As a matter of fact. Yes. Listen...” Knockout hastily picks up the first aid kit and walks towards the med bays “You'd better ask him yourself. My shift ends in ten minutes, I'm not in the mood to start anything now.”

Jazz nods

“Suuure , no problem.”

“Can I ask what you do in there?”

Prowl has this...look. The one that shows up usually after he gets back from the labs.

In his head, Jazz calls it “'Wobbly.” It's like Prowl's little organic body's joints are coming loose. If he had joints of course (Wait, humans have joints? Right?).

Prowl squints glumly, looking up at him

“Working on improving my mobility on the field.”

Jazz lets out a quiet “oooh.”

Then pulls himself back together

“Shouldn't that involve working on your armor, and not ..uh. you?”

Prowl leans his back against the wall.

“Installing new thrusters on a mech of my class doesn't make sense. They'll increase its speed, but they'll also burn fuel faster.

And installing larger fuel tanks is something reserved for Strikers. There's no way Orion would approve such an upgrade for me.”

Jazz carefully sits down on the floor next to Prowl. It still doesn't give him a good angle on his human's face, but Prowl stares at the floor anyway so...

“And you found some kind of loophole huh?”

Prowl gives a barely perceptible shrug.

“I did some calculations and noticed that the fuel used to run the Heavy Mechs is much more efficient. It's slower to burn out, and gives significantly better performance. Which makes sense, considering it's needed to compensate for the weight of the heavy armor. Used in my mech, it would give me a ten percent increase in speed and twice as much active usage time.

Jazz glares at the top of Prowl's head.

“Sounds like an epic idea, but I'm sensing a 'but' coming...”

“But it's highly toxic.”

“It's what??”

Prowl rubs the bridge of his nose with his fingers

“Only heavy mechs can run this type of fuel because there's enough room in them to insulate the cockpit well enough from any possible chemical exposure.”

Jazz nervously pulls the servo toward Prowl but hesitates at the last second and places it on the floor next to him.

“Prowl. Prowl your armor is lovely but it's anything but heavy.”

“It is” nods Prowl “There isn't enough room in my mech to shield me from any negative effects, so Tarantulas is working on making me immune to them.”

“But that....kind of...why are you letting him? I'm no expert, but sitting inside poisoned armor can't be good for you. I don't know what he told you, but if you had asked even one other medic...”

Prowl finally lifts his head and stares into Jazz's optics for a couple seconds

“He didn't convince me of anything. I asked him to do it myself.”

“Prowl...”

“People have biases against Tarantulas but I assure you, he doesn't do anything I didn't consent to him doing. He likes to go outside the box in his research. He doesn't dismiss my ideas as too harsh. We collaborate.”

“.....”

“The result will be worth it. You'll see.”

Jazz is uncomfortable admitting it, but he sees.

The result is impressive.

Prowl can not only move fast, he can do it for a long time. He's getting more efficient (again), faster (again), better (Prowl's subjective assessment).

The maintenance team wears special masks when working on the internal systems of his mech. The fuel is toxic. Not to Jazz, but even Jazz wouldn't want it to get on his plating.

And humans are fragile.

All organics tend to be fragile.

And Prowl... little flesh-and-blood Prowl gets into this poisoned armor and it's considered acceptable? Because his organic body seems to have developed enough resistance to this kind of damage he only gets a “”mild, easily treatable“” poisoning? And Tarantulas adds another white bracelet to his arm with notes on what substances Prowl needs to put in his drinks to keep his internal components from accumulating damage.

Jazz isn't sure what to think about this.

Jazz doesn't know what to do about it.

And frankly. Does he have the right to get involved if this is what Prowl has chosen for himself?

Tarantulas is a creepy, haunting shadow hanging over Prowl at the slightest opportunity. Tarantulas takes Prowl to a lab and runs poison through his veins. Tarantulas adores Prowl for allowing him to do this.

Prowl insists that Tarantulas is helping.

Jazz doesn't think Prowl is getting help.

[crowwowo]

Big fan of the concept of the mark causing the inquisitor intense physical pain !!

In the early days of the inquisition, Alexandra develops a habit of passing out in the Rotunda while doing paperwork, and many of these nights shes met with pains + nightmares. I think Cullen happens upon her one of these nights, shaking all over, and decides the herald of Andraste cant sleep out in the open and steals himself (and totally not because he’s racked with guilt at the sight of her)

Alternatively, Alexandra reliving her harrowing over and over in her nightmares, only to jolt awake to the face of that one Templar from Kirkwall she hated

[strialternatives]

bonus:

:inhales and slams hands on the desk: akechi. palace. pitch.

disclaimer: the setting for this is all about vibes and aesthetics, it kinda got away from me when i started hashing out the plot around it two months ago so now we're here. in hell. (i'll probably have to make a secondary post i made wayyy too many concepts,)

yes i made an ost for this idea, here is a youtube playlist of chill european jazz

AU details under the cut-

Akechi Goro's palace is "Ampitheatrum Doloris”.

KEYWORDS: Akechi Goro, Tokyo Highcourt, Amphitheater

Akechi's psyche is a massive collection of locked doors, puzzles, and contradictions. He wants to be seen but not understood—heard but never known, ect. This makes his palace infiltration a waking nightmare (affectionate).

His palace is made up of five main layers. They each mirror a stage of grief:

1) There is the outer layer of with the appearance of a Venice-esque water canal maze, there is a door that must be opened to reach the entrance to infiltrate the second layer underneath the amphitheater. The puzzle's actually pretty sentimental and revolves around Akechi's interest in literature.

(This layer is depression, Goro mourns what he lost and the fact that the choices he made for the sake of revenge ultimately led to nowhere. This is reflected in how desolate/meandering the outer layer feels, it is the largest and most time consuming part of the palace for this reason. It takes weeks to finish. AKA, Akira and Morgana have a terrible, no good, very bad month of May.) 

2) The Labyrinth under the amphitheater; it is full of shadows for the arena champion to use as fodder for the enjoyment of the masses. ‘Loki’ resides here—this layer’s theme loosely plays on the Minotaur myth. 

The only way to escape is through a pulley/elevator mechanism which leads to the surface after shattering the Champion’s chains by force. Loki taunts in Old Norse, but gives Akira (and the party by extension) genuine hints on how to escape.

(This layer is anger, Goro is always angry, about the hand he’s been dealt, the futility of his own actions, and the fact that his life has always been a dead end, written in the stars.)

3) The Audience Stands; full of human cognitions and Akechi’s former clients and fans, despite everything, like Sae, he sees them as ‘people’ and is disgusted by them. Their compliments are shallow and empty, surface level like Goro’s facade. Cognition Sae is delegated to a middle manager-type role, and leads Akira and Co. through puzzles.

Different cognitions from Akechi’s shitshow of a childhood throw riddles based around philosophy and the nature of justice at the party, if the answer is ‘wrong’, there’s a mini-boss fight. Answering everything correctly yields a prize—a key, this process is made difficult by all of Robin’s ‘hints’ (which the Thieves can directly ask for) being lies.

(Bargaining. Goro always thought he could still salvage his revenge despite his enemy being essentially invincible, even now deep down he thinks he can salvage all the effort and sacrifices he put in.)

4) The Stage; Robin Hood appears proper instead of in cameo appearances, this is the lead actor's stage. To earn the right to stand with him, Akira has to have to prove his worth in one-on-one combat while showing the crowd a rousing show. The goal is to use the key obtained in the bargaining layer to unlock the Performer's cuffs.

(Denial, Goro doesn’t believe he needs or deserves saving or a life outside of his revenge, he believes there is no other way forward.)

Hereward and the 'treasure' are in the Imperial box area, which I'll save for part 2 of this I think! The second half of this'll have less focus on the environments and more on general plot and character design.

EDIT: here's part two and part three

[reiderwriter]

✍️ Dear Diary ✍️

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

For the CM Kink Bingo Challenge

Requested: Hi thereee! I was thinking about a request since I saw they’re open again… I was thinking maybe Con-non con breeding/cream pie?🤭 maybe somnophilia too. S get home en R is sleeping and he just take what he wants but it’s obviously something mutual.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI Dubcon/ CNC, somnophilia, breeding, pet play (kitten/owner), daddy kink, unprotected sex, almost one bed trope, oral (m recieving), Perv!Spencer, dom!Spencer, sub!Reader and just incredibly horny Reader and Spencer.

Summary: Spencer comes across your dream journal and finds out that you're not plagued with nightmares but with wet dreams. And they're all about him.

A/N: Thank you to @reidmotif, who basically told me the entire concept of this fic was forcing Spencer to read smut headcannons about himself and watching the reactions. I think this is the quickest I've ever written something from start to finish 💀

Masterlist || Bingo Board

Spencer didn't know what possessed him to read through your diary, but he couldn't stop when he started. At a single glance, he could tell it wasn't the book that he was looking for, the one you'd sent him to find in your bedroom, the one you'd recommended he read. 

That one was beside it on the side table, but there was something about the black moleskin, laid perfectly flat on the desk, that had his fingers itching as he moved it forward. 

You were otherwise occupied with setting out the plates of takeaway you'd ordered for the six people currently sat in your living room, so knowing his company wouldn't be missed for a few minutes, he sat himself down and began reading. 

Within ten pages, he completely regretted it. 

He'd sussed out by the title page that this wasn't just a normal journal but a dream journal. It was heavily recommended in a lot of the mandated therapy sessions you guys did. Hell, even Hotch had suggested it to him a few times, so he shouldn't be surprised you kept one. 

He was just surprised at the content of your dreams.

He knew his own were dark and painful, and he was curious, thinking that knowing your dreams could help him assist you better through whatever was plaguing you recently. 

In ten pages, he'd managed to suss out that it was him that was plaguing you. 

“May 8th - Woke up hot again. Dreamt of Spencer waking me up with his tongue. Need to get this out of my system.” 

“May 10th - On my back tied to the bed. Spencer again. I'm going to hell.” 

“May 22nd - Kitten ears. And Spencer's cum splashing on my face as a wake up call. I'm a freak!” 

Each entry was similar, and he read on page after page, until he felt his cock stiffening and he had to put the book down and remind himself that there was company just a few doors away. Company that included his friends and a woman who'd been dreaming of fucking him every night for… three months now. 

He took a deep breath. He took a lot of deep breaths, forcing himself to think of the most unappealing things ever as he calmed himself down. 

A voice down the hall called his name, and he dropped the journal like a scalding pot and picked up the other book, opening it to a random page and trying to look convincingly entranced. 

“Spencer, what-?” You asked, seeing him sat on your bed reading the book. He thanked the heavens that the book was a hardback and just big enough to hide the remaining stiffness in his pants while he tried to will it to deflate. 

“Oh, good book, right? I should've known you'd start reading it straight away. Just take it home, Spencer.”

“No, no, it's okay, I don't need-” 

“No, it's fine. You can give it back at the Stanford Review Psychology Seminar next weekend. We're rooming still, right?” 

He took in what felt like a gulp of air, forcing the oxygen down into his lungs as his tongue laid as useless in his mouth as his cock felt in his pants.

“Right.” He managed to get out as you told him to haul his ass back to the living area. 

He took up your journal again, though, and for the next few minutes, committed your diary to memory and left the room. 

“Spencer, come on, kid, what book is as interesting as Wrestlemania?” Morgan said, clapping him on the back as he ripped through a slice of pizza. 

One where the author said she'd woken up mid-orgasm just imagining he'd tied her down. And him specifically.

“Leave the kid alone, you know he's prone to his little fantasies,” Rossi chimed in as well, passing Spencer a beer quickly and cracking one open for himself.

Not the most prone person in the room to fantasies, of course, but possibly the second most prone. 

“Shut up and watch the game, you're making him squirm,” you said from your perch behind his seat on the couch, giving him a quick pat on the shoulders, your fingers lingering just too long. 

And with the word squirm went his whole concentration as he started imagining your small mews and purrs of pleasure, your sleepy face dazed as his fingers roughly curled into your cunt. You'd squirm for him, and you'd do a whole lot more than that. 

The rest of the night tortured him the same way, though thankfully he'd managed to find a pillow to cover up his small - though growing ever harder - issue. At last, he was the last one left in your apartment, the others letting themselves out after you'd crashed on your own sofa just inches from him. 

To be fair, they'd pulled off the herculean task of cleaning up after themselves without waking you, despite your notoriety for sleeping light. 

He'd waved off the others and said he'd get you back into bed, protests quickly falling on deaf ears. Yes, Morgan may have been the better choice to carry your dead-tired weight, but he was also five beers in and just as likely to slam you into the bed a la whatever wrestlers Spencer had been ignoring on the screen all night. 

He'd gotten himself mostly under control anyway, so he'd been able to rush them out of the door, drunk or senile, and managed to turn himself back to you. 

You were curled up in a little ball, like a cat who'd found the perfect cardboard box to sit in. You filled the space and looked comfortable, but he knew you'd be sore in the morning. Either that, or your words had driven him to the brink of insanity and he just wanted his hands on you for once.

He didn't bother trying to fully lift you, knowing you'd definitely freak out and wake up if he tried. 

Instead, he started talking to you in your sleep. 

“Y/N… let's go to bed,” he whispered, pulling your arms limply around his neck as he tugged you upwards with two hands firmly on your hips until you were standing. 

You let out a small whimper of protest, head falling forward to nuzzle into his chest as he started slowly walking you back to your bed. It was a technique he'd used on you more than once, getting you to comply when half asleep on multiple occasions to assist you when drunk or exhausted or both. 

With the revelations of your diary, he thought about talking you into even more in your sleepy state but resisted. 

“Spencer…” you mumbled, gripping him loosely and pressing kisses against his shirt and chest, lazily. 

He had to remind himself you were still asleep, even if you were moving and talking. Asleep, even if you had wanted him to wake you up with a cock in your cunt. Asleep, and not his girlfriend, or lover, or anything more than coworker, as his cock hardened and the backs of your knees finally hit the side of your bed. 

You half collapsed onto it, and we're half lowered gently by Spencer, though in all his uncoordination, he couldn't stop himself from falling directly on top of you. 

“Yes, Spencer…” you sighed, hands brushing up and down his chest above you as he froze solid. 

He was screwed. He'd read every word of that diary. He could imagine exactly what it was you were dreaming of at that moment, and he needed to extricate himself before he did something he'd hate himself for. 

His hand snaked up your waist, just brushing your nipple as he finally dropped it to the bed and pushed himself up. He couldn't touch you anymore without consequences, and while those consequences sounded truly…delightful, he resisted. 

Tucking you into bed, drowning out the sounds of your faint purrs and moans, he rubbed his cock through his pants to ease some of the ache. He denied himself more, grabbing your recommended book from the side table, leaving the infernal journal and closing the door on quite possibly one of the most arousing experiences of his life. 

He was screwed. 

A week passed and left him in his state of screwedness. You may have dreamed of him taking you like that, almost against your will, but he dreamed of you begging him to do so. 

He awoke stiff every day and refused to touch himself, to acknowledge the disgusting pleasure he was getting from his imagination. 

A week full of cold showers and blue balls, and what did it end with except being back in close quarters with your horny ass. 

Screwed supreme. 

You noticed he was acting off very quickly, and you'd commented on it the morning of conference day one, knocking him back slightly with each step towards him you took. 

“Spencer, are you sick?” You said, stepping closer, raising a hand as if to test his temperature. 

“No, no, I just... germaphobic, remember?" he smiled, gently brushing your hand away. He also took another step away from you to stop him from balling his hands into your sides and pushing you down to the floor to have his way with you. 

“That hasn't bothered you before. You literally said last week that we're in the same places so often that we've been exposed to the same bacteria and have likely formed an immuno-connection or whatever-”

“There's just-” he said, now taking another step further away from you, hands up in a surrendering pose to halt your approach. “A lot of people at this conference. It's making me a bit uncomfortable.” 

You seemed to understand that, backing off. And thankfully, just in time, because a second later and his hands would've been tangled in your hair, forcing you to your knees so he could show you just how compromised he could get you. 

You'd dreamt about something similar on March 25th. And April 3rd. 

It wasn't just his own lust for you fogging his mind - he'd dealt with that before, his hand a friendly nighttime companion - but compounded with your own, it was unbearable. 

He looked at you and all he saw was “March 2nd - Begged Spencer to cum inside me, and fill his little kitten as much as he could. Could I convince him to fo that for real?” 

For fucking real.

He felt infinitely more respect for your skills at your job now, knowing that he couldn't go a week without genuinely flinching away from your touch feeling this goddamn pent up, and you'd lasted three months and counting without so much as batting an eye. 

After wandering through the conference all day, listening to the keynote speakers and giving a speech of his own, he'd grown exhausted. He was tired of avoiding you, but it had to be done. The thing he feared the most was breaking and becoming one of the monsters he'd dedicated his life to catching. The thing he feared most was you. 

You'd hugged him when he completed his speech, lingering still after pulling away, so he was still aware of every inch and curve of you. 

“I'm so proud of you,” you said with a smile, straightening his tie. You wouldn't be proud of him if you knew what he wanted to do with that tie. He imagined, even in a crowd of people, pulling you back by your hair - March 31st - and gagging you with the scrap of material - April 17th.

After almost doing just that, he quickly excused himself, and 12 miscalls and 27 text messages later, you'd finally given him what he wanted - “I'm going to sleep now. We need to talk in the morning.” 

He finally crept back to the room you were sharing from a restaurant below. He'd thought about numbing his senses with alcohol but decided against it, not willing to take the risk that he'd numb his inhibitions at the same time. 

It wouldn't be the first time alcohol had made him get handsy with you, scowling as he remembered his hands trailing all over you during karaoke at the Delfino, his hands gripping tighter as the night stretched out longer. You'd both been trying to sing Billy Joel, and then he'd been trying to keep hold of you no matter how much you'd giggled and fidgeted. 

Looking back now, he was sure it was only the presence of every single one of your coworkers and half the FBI that stopped him from covering you in kisses, from pushing his hand up your shirt and playing with you. 

Alone in your hotel room, there was nowhere else. 

Sure enough, though, there was another bed, which he happily threw himself on when he entered, knowing he'd claimed the one closest to the door. 

He sat for a minute, then two, then three, and just knowing you were close had his brain begging to repeat everything it had learnt in your diary. 

“March 1st - I think I had a sex dream about Spencer. I think I really enjoyed it. I think I should avoid him today” 

“March 18th - Used my vibratory before bed and still woke up needy. What would Spencer's cock feel like buried inside of me?”

“April 14th - He took me over a desk in the bullpen while continuing his conversation with Hotch. I almost cried, waking up and finding out it wasn't real.” 

“June 4th - Spencer is coming over tonight, and I spent the whole day masturbating to memories of my own dreams about him…. I'm definitely going to hell.” 

It was as he repeated each of these entries in his head like a mantra that the bed shifted and he felt something next to him. 

Whatever bed he'd thrown himself into, you had decided to occupy as well. He felt your ass first, wiggling up against his crotch as you snuggled into whatever warmth he was offering beside you. 

The content sigh that left your lips was the final straw as Spencer's nerves frayed and his already throbbing cock begged for relief. 

His hands held your hips still as he unthinkingly began to rut into you, rubbing his cock against your ass in any way that would find release. 

He tried to stop himself, but you were mid-dream now, and you were making those noises again. 

Tiny little pants, mewls of pleasure, his name. Jesus Christ, his name. 

He pushed down his boxers as you threw your head back, landing at the crook of his neck, your breath fanning over his skin as you turned over. 

Instead of rutting against your ass, he could now hitch your legs across his thighs and at least get close enough to where he wanted to be, buried in your wet, aching pussy. 

He didn't let himself. Biting his lip, he moved his hands from your hips to his cock, and began a slow, painful attempt at jacking off. 

It should've been easy with you in front of him. He should've already exploded on his hand, especially after more than a week of nothing.

But you were in arms reach and it was as if his entire body was on strike until he sank into you. 

In the end, it was your movements that led him to crack, just like it had been your words in the first place that had moved him to such desperation. 

Shifting uncomfortably again in your sleep, you'd managed to push your leg over his lap and roll on top of him, all while unconscious. 

And then you started moving. Like really fucking moving, like dry humping. Spencer's brain disappeared as he tugged at your clothing to figure out how to remove as much as needed removing. 

Luckily, all he had to do was shift your panties to the side and make sure he didn't get tangled in the rest of your night dress, and, thoughtlessly, he was plunging into your depths. 

He thought it would be that first thrust that would wake him, and though he had his suspicions, he was right. You didn't move. If anything you were quieter now with his cock filling you than you had been dry humping it not a minute earlier. 

You were awake, he knew. You were awake, and you were pretending to sleep. His cock throbbed inside you at the thought and he knew he needed more. 

“March 19th, I dreamed that Spencer woke me up with some cream for his kitten. I called him Daddy. God, I wish it were real,” he whispered in your ear as you continued your facade, quoting your diary back at you as he flipped you over. 

He was gentle still, allowing you to maintain the illusion of sleep even as your heart beat out of your chest and a moan threatened to burst out of your mouth. 

Softly, his hips retreated from over yours, his thick cock withdrawing from your heat before slamming back in. 

“April 12th - Daddy let his good little kitten drink up her spilt milk from the floor. I licked his cum up with my tongue as he fucked me from behind. I'm perverse.” 

Your breathing was way harder to control now, as his hips swayed into yours repeatedly, his real cock stretching further than you'd ever imagined his dream one reaching. You'd never been a good visualiser. 

“Wake up, Y/N,” he said, kissing your neck and replacing his lips with a firm hand at your windpipe. 

“Wake up and talk to me. We're supposed to be talking about earlier, right? You're supposed to be mad at me, but instead, you're close to cumming on my big fat cock.”

You screwed your eyes up tighter as he lifted his head and let his tongue silence the first moan that you let.slip through. He'd won. 

His to guess clashed with yours as you tried to control his pace from under him, tugging your hips up, begging for more of his dick to enter you. 

Sure, you were awake, but to you, this was just another dream, and he wasn't going to let you escape him this time. 

“That's it, that's.my little girl, milk my cock,” he murmured, even as he grabbed your hips again and started setting the pace once again. It was his fingers stabbing into the gate of your hips and stomach that had you finally fully waking up and realizing that this was real, that Spencer had fucked you awake. 

“S-Spencer,” you moaned, chest jumping with each jack hammer, his head buried between them, picking and sucking like some ravenous beast devouring prey. 

“Daddy,” he corrected, sucking one nipple that had popped out of the top of your night dress into his mouth and biting down. 

You arched into the touch, and he didn't let you move away, hands instantly gripping you tighter as you squirmed and fought in his grip. He held tighter still as his dick entered you, again and again. 

Like you were falling asleep again, your brain cleared until there was only him, hic cock, his tongue on your chest, his hands on your ass keeping you in place.

“May 16th - Last night, Spencer was my owner, and he raped me in the middle of the night. He pushed his fat cock into me and I howled in pleasure, stating exactly where he put me until he released his load into me.”

The words were your own, but you couldn't feel any shame heading them, knowing the reenactment felt just as good as you'd hoped it would subconsciously. 

“Y/N, focus on me. Focus on milking my cock like s good little kitten, come on Y/N,” he said, thrusting into you with no qualms now. 

He'd given in, and he'd given in quickly, but if this was the reward, then he was never holding back again. 

“Spencer-” you shuddered out as your orgasm broke through you, his panting writhing form finally pushing you back down into the bed as he continued tutting into you until he, too, could no longer hold back. 

With a painful groan, he came and pulled out of you in an instant, letting his cum leak out of you as he watched. 

You barely had time to catch your breath before he pulled you up, tugging at your hair until you were both on your knees, then pushing you down until your face was level with his softening cock. 

“Clean up your spilt milk, kitten,” he panted, and you complied happily, licking up every drop that had splashed against his cock and stomach and thighs. 

His moans were musical, whimpers and pouts and sinful curses as he held up your hair and tried not to fuck your mouth, enjoying the sensations of your exploring g tongue too much for that. 

When he'd thought you'd done enough, he tugged you up again, wrapping his hands around your body firmly and pulling you in for one more kiss. 

“Next time,” he said, pulling away and panting to catch his breath. “Next time- you have- a dream- just- tell me.” 

You nodded and tried to chase his lips, but he pulled you back down to the bed before you made it  eliciting a small whimper of frustration. 

“You're sleeping in my bed,” he observed, stroking your head as he held you close. 

“You were avoiding me.” 

“I was avoiding you because I've been walking around with a boner for a week, and I didn't want to jump you in a conference room filled with 300 people.”

“You read my diary,” you said, pouting. 

“You let me read your diary. It was wide open on the desk, and you sent me into that room alone, knowing my eyes move quicker than my conscience does.” 

You hummed, smiling in reply but didn't answer the accusations. 

“I wonder what my wake up call in the morning will be like,” you smiled, shutting your eyes and letting yourself fall asleep, his chest pillowing your head and his arms closed tight around your waist. 

[dearru]

do u guys know that one song by doja cat that goes “like fortnite ima need ur skin.” that’s what inspired this. hope u enjoy. | mlist

imagine you, an aspiring singer, starting to date the wildly influential streamer, kodzuken. you two are the definition of a picture perfect couple, and you start to make lots of content together. as a result, your career begins to take off, and kenma’s content grows in popularity,

everything’s great— until it isn’t. the relationship ends up crashing and burning in an embarrassingly public breakup.

people are devastated. video essays are made. diehard fans even claim the split is the equivalent of “parents divorcing.”

it’s a whole ordeal.

but as time passes, the wounds heal. and in true internet fashion, it becomes old news. some people still whisper about how they believe you two are soulmates, but for the most part, kenma’s chat and your comment section don’t get flooded with invasive questions about whether you two will get back together anymore.

fast forward to two years or so after the breakup, you and kenma end up growing in your respective careers. his several business ventures have grown exponentially, and you’re now selling out stadiums.

kenma doesn’t stream as much as he used to when you two were together, but he chalks it up to having to juggle so many different commitments now. fans speculate as to whether or not that’s the true reason, but as a collective, they agree that they’ll take whatever content they can get from the elusive creator.

despite not streaming as frequently, kenma still likes to indulge his audience every once in a while by hopping online. normally, he likes to decide what to play, but every once in a while, he’ll let chat decide.

tonight is one of those nights.

on a whim, he gives in to requests for him to boot up fortnite— an old favorite of his— for the first time in months.

big mistake.

the second he opens the once beloved game, he gets jumpscared by something that even his worst nightmares couldn’t have fathomed.

you.

everywhere.

to his horror, and the chat’s delight, he finds that you’ve become the poster child for fortnite’s newest campaign. your face is on the menu screen, banners of you flash in bright colors, and you’re plastered everywhere in the item shop.

they say men are constantly haunted by the ghost of their first love, and in a cruel twist of fate, it’s a saying that has become ironically true for kenma as he realizes that epic games has made you into a fucking skin.

he debates the consequences of throwing his pc into a wall, but his screen flashes with an overly excitable chat faster than he can make a decision. old fans are freaking out, new gen fans are wondering what all the fuss is about, and someone donates just to type “YOU’RE FUCKED.”

kenma has half the mind to laugh as the notification illuminates his face because he knows the donor is right.

he’s not an idiot. he knows that you’re popular now, but to be so famous that you have your own skin? he’s in absolute disbelief. there’s no way the universe hates him this much. it’s bad enough that you’re on every headline and radio station. now you’re in his favorite video game?!?!

he is so unbelievably, irrevocably fucked.

—a/n: i think that kenma’s viewers are evil and they all band together and emote on kenma with ur skin whenever they see him online.

—a/n #2: has anyone written abt this concept before. pls lmk. i would love to read it bc i giggled so hard when the thought popped in my head HAHAHA.

—a/n #3: guys i don’t play fortnite, watch streamers, or write for kenma at all so pls don’t hate on me ok thx love u

[edgyandoverzealous]

Me this morning seeing a fic rec on this glorious hellsite: Dead Dove do not eat? Well jokes on you there are very few doves I won't eat, I am a king of the disturbed. I mean have you seen my angst ideas? Or my fic where my intrusive thoughts are essentially plot points? I was even banned from writing an angst fic because of it so bring it.

*15 minutes later 6:55 am*

Oh fuck....

*plagued by it all day at work*

Take the crown I stand corrected. Cannot eat the Dove and I have a new fear unlocked that'll plague me forever and caused me to not only be sluggish and slightly nauseous with weak legs but cause my anxiety to spike continuously all day until I'm shaking and wanting to cry as I try to convince my GAD that this will never happen to me and I'm safe too. You win. I am not as mighty as I thought and have never seen a blossoming manic episode drop back down to a depressive episode so fast. I'm gonna go repeat the affirmations I came up with to combat the fear crawling at my insides again. Thanks </3

[redeemingvillains]

fears & fantasies - mattheo riddle

⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ summary - mattheo is your brother's best friend and your biggest crush so surely when he offers you comfort it's purely platonic...right?

word count: 3k

soundtrack: peace - taylor swift

a/n: requested by the lovely @darlingshecried - thank you love for this fun and adorable concept ♡ and special shoutout to @cipheress-to-k-pop's mattheo fic beauty and the beast which inspired theo's gf's name (#thevangeline forever).

Your bare feet padded quickly against the cold flagstone of the dungeon floor.

You held your arms around yourself, shivering as you tried to avert your eyes from the long shadows in the corners that looked like ghosts, like dementors, like your nightmare.

You focused on putting one foot in front of the other as you swiped the tears out of your eyes. It was just a dream, it wasn't real, it was just a dream you repeated in your head, a mantra. But what you knew to be true in your mind and how it made you feel were two completely different things, and you weren't able to shake the cold terror from your bones. No, at this point you knew there was only one solution, one thing that could make you feel better, your brother, Theo.

Your entire childhood he'd watched out for you and tried to shield you from the darkness that had swarmed your family. But he was barely a year older than you, he was just as much a child as you were, and he couldn't defend you from everything all by himself; you were left riddled with nightmares, something he consistently blamed himself for.

He could hear them come in the thin walls between your rooms, the way you'd mumble quietly and then louder, panicked and fearful and you lost count of the number of times you'd woken up, just before the very worst of them to his gentle whispers, as he held you.

"Stellina" he'd whisper quietly. Little star. "You're okay, it's okay." And it would be, instantly. As long as he was there.

You pushed open the door to his dormitory and padded quietly past the other four poster beds, careful not to wake the boys that dozed beside him.

But when you got to his bed, your stomach dropped in dread as you realized it was empty.

No, no, no you thought as you looked around like the shadows would reveal him instead of closing in on you as you tried unsuccessfully to catch your breath, your panic rising.

"YN?" a voice whispered and you turned quickly, nearly tripping over yourself in fear.

"Whoa, hey, hey you're alright."

Through the narrow slice of moonlight coming in through the window you could see Mattheo leaning out from under his covers, curls askew, eyes barely open as he peered at you.

And your heart continued to race for an entirely different reason.

You'd known Mattheo since first year, since he and Theo became inseparable, because in many ways you'd become inseparable too. But growing up alongside him as he went from a reckless boy to a troublesome teenager to the unbearably hot guy in front of you was it's own sort of torture, because you knew he never looked at you as anything more than his own little sister.

"T-Teddy?" you asked shakily.

"He's with Evangeline."

His girlfriend. You nodded quickly, understandingly, even as your heart sank and you wound your hands together nervously.

"Right, yeah" you said shaking your head as you tried to calm yourself.

"Did you have a nightmare?" he asked patiently.

You met his eyes and nodded slowly as you gnawed your bottom lip, trying to bite back your emotions, even as you realized he might be the only other person to really understand you, knowing he had terrible nightmares too.

"C'mere" he offered, waving you over to him before making room in his bed.

You hesitated.

He had never once intimated anything with you. But then you realized that while your mind was running rampant at the vision of him shirtless in his rumpled sheets inviting you to sleep with him, he was only doing what any good friend, any older brother would do. Surely he didn't see you any other way.

So you moved to his bedside and crawled beneath the thick, warm covers.

It's the right thing to do.

It's the friendly, brotherly thing to do.

Theo would have asked me to do it Mattheo thought.

But Theo would not have asked him to stare at the dips and curves of your figure in your barely-there pajama set nor to selfishly revel at the idea of you in his bed.

No, for as careful and intentional as Mattheo was around you, if Theo knew half the things Mattheo thought, he'd push him straight off the astronomy tower.

He knew he was tempting fate, tempting himself to have you next to him like this, but you were scared, you were vulnerable and there was no way he was going to leave you like that, shivering, teary eyed, and alone.

She just wants her brother. And I'm the next best thing.

You met Mattheo's dark brown eyes that glimmered in the dim light.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, his voice gravelly with sleep.

You shook your head, gnawing at your lip again in a way that drew his attention there, that made him want to run his finger, his lips over it to get you to stop worrying.

"Do you want a hug?"

You paused only a moment before nodding.

He reached for you and gently pulled you into his arms as you wound yours around him, your head falling to his bare chest.

He held you gently but in a way that made you feel like nothing could touch you and it was like all of your shadows melted away as you let out a wobbly sigh.

He could feel you melt against him, could feel the way you physically relaxed in his arms, and he held his breath, overcome with the scent of your shampoo, at knowing that he was able to bring you peace.

His mind raced as he tried to think about anything other than the way he could distinctly feel every place your bodies touched, the way you always smiled at him big and wide and carefree, how you knew him better than nearly anyone else and still loved him unconditionally, the way you said his name with just the slightest hint of your Italian accent, the way the vowels rolled off your tongue in a way that let you taste every letter.

And subconsciously he squeezed you a little tighter as he reconciled those thoughts with the fact that even though he'd spent years pining for you, you were the only girl he could never have.

You were asleep instantly, exhausted by your emotions, and the way your fear was followed so quickly by the feeling of Mattheo's strong arms, the scent of his sheets, of him, evergreen and cedar, the smell so familiar and enticing it felt like home.

You dreamt of him, in shades of your own memories, of swimming together in the lake, of watching the stars on a summer night, of him giving you a piggyback ride, and handing you a messy bundle of wildflowers for your birthday. Theo was there too, of course, but he was blurry, faded in the background in a way that left just the two of you in focus.

Warm you thought, and smiled.

You were so warm and cozy and peacefully rested as you came to in a space tinged in shades of green from the curtains of the four poster bed around you.

And then you felt the pressure of a weighted blanket that you slowly realized was actually a very large arm around you and memories of the night before came flooding back.

You were tucked firmly in Mattheo's grasp, your back to his chest that you could feel rising and falling in time with his warm breath at your neck.

This is heaven you thought as you sighed, your eyelids fluttering, until you were surrounded by mumbled voices of the other boys waking up which in turn caused Mattheo to stir next to you. He slowly unwound his arm from you and you could have groaned at the loss of his touch as you turned to face him to see his cheeks pink.

"You alright?" he asked sleepily as he rubbed at his eye and yawned widely.

No, I think I am hopelessly in love with you you thought.

"Yeah" you mumbled. "Sorry about last night, I just–"

"–Don't apologize. I get it, trust me. The shit we've seen? Fucks with our heads" he said as he stared at the top of his four-poster before looking back at you with a resigned smile.

You smiled back as you heard the others shuffle out of the room, taking that as your window of opportunity to follow suit.

"Sooo, maybe we don't tell Theo about..." you started, gesturing between the two of you as you sat up to leave.

Mattheo's brow furrowed. You never kept anything from your brother... Unless...there was something more here than he'd thought?

"Wouldn't want him to worry!" you clarified quickly. "You know how he gets."

"Right, right, yeah no, understood" Mattheo agreed.

But he saw the blush on your cheeks, the way you averted your eyes as the covers moved to reveal his bare chest, his boxers and he couldn't stop himself as he leaned forward after you as you stepped out of his bed.

"M'always here if you need me" he said, smiling at you in a way that was both boyish and devastating and you were at a complete loss for words as you nodded and shuffled out of his room.

It happened three more times that week.

You wanted to be angry at Theo, but you couldn't deny that you craved Mattheo's comfort and were getting all too used to sliding into his bed, to fitting yourself in his arms like they were meant for you. Each time got easier, each time got more familiar, each time your defenses dropped a little more and each time Mattheo was convinced he was right, that maybe maybe his forbidden crush was reciprocated.

He knew he couldn't ask you outright, you'd deny it out of principle. But he was determined to find another way to confirm his theory.

It started small.

When you crawled into bed last night he'd reached and tucked your hair behind your ear and let his fingers linger at your cheek and he'd felt the way you squeezed him just a little tighter.

Then it was drawing lazy circles on your back, languid and slow against the soft cotton fabric of your pajamas that tortured him and he felt you hum in appreciation, the soft sound enough to make him strain against his boxers in a way that was about to make his efforts not-so-subtle. And he smirked, because he was certain he knew exactly how you felt, now he just needed to figure out what to do about it.

But then the unexpected happened.

You had drifted off to sleep in his arms, your weight heavy against him, your soft breaths a melody that caused his own eyelids to flutter shut.

And then he had a nightmare.

Of you, scared, screaming for him, but he couldn't reach you despite how hard he tried, his strides stuck in quicksand. He called for you over and over but he couldn't get to you, couldn't have you.

A soft voice responded, calling his name, pulling him out of the vision to see you, awake and whole, leaning over him, your hair curtaining your face which was fixed in tender concern for him.

His heart raced and he struggled to catch his breath as you cupped his face. 'Hey, hey, bello, Mattheo, you're okay' you murmured sweetly and he reached to place his hand over yours, holding it there as he breathed heavily and met your gaze.

"You're okay" he repeated after a second, as much to himself as to you.

"I'm okay" you replied slowly, smiling in confusion.

He scrunched his face and swallowed, eyes closing as he tried to gather himself. "Sorry, you–you were in my dream. S'stupid" he muttered as he wiped a hand over his face. A pause. "I guess I was just...worried about you."

"So you're looking out for me even in your dreams now, huh?" you asked teasingly.

He smiled before letting out a breathy laugh, the sound reassuring you enough to lay back down next to him as he turned to face you.

At this distance you were close enough to see every detail of his face highlighted in the sapphire blue of the night, the smallest freckles on his nose, the curve of his lips and the twinkle in his eye as he reached and brushed his thumb over your cheek in a touch so delicate you sighed and leaned into it.

He just wanted to feel you, to know you were real, that this wasn't part of a dream where you'd disappear in his grasp but then your eyes fluttered to his lips, lingering there, like you were lost in thought as you rolled your bottom lip into your mouth, and that was his breaking point.

He leaned in slowly, closing the distance between you and pulled you towards him as he pressed his lips to yours.

And thank Merlin you didn't pull back or hesitate, no, you reached for him, pulling yourself further into his arms as you kissed him fervently in a way that had him muffling a groan against your lips as his hands wound into your hair.

He pulled himself on top of you as your legs and limbs tangled and you grasped for each other, submitting to every temptation you'd had for days, for years as you immersed yourself in him, rolling your tongue against his as he squeezed your side, his fingers finding the warm skin at your ribs under your shirt and his hips rolling against yours until you let out the quietest, sweetest sound that had him pulling back in panic.

"Fuck" he sighed, slamming his eyes closed and turning his head at the sight of you beneath him, breathless and flushed.

"Don't say it" you cautioned. "Don’t you dare say it."

He paused.

"Theo's going to fucking kill me."

"UGH!" you replied, moving to cover your face with your hands. "Why did you have to bring him up!?"

Mattheo pried one of your hands away as he peered at you and you frowned up at him.

"He's going to kill me either way" he said as he laughed, "at least let me make the most of it."

You pushed his chest playfully.

"I'm serious!" he said. "Do you know how long I've wanted to do that?"

You moved your other hand from your face as you looked at him.

"Fuck YN" he sighed, shaking his head.

And just the idea that Mattheo wanted you perhaps a fraction as badly as you'd wanted him made the thought of Theo's wrath fade into the background as you strained to press your lips to his. That will be a problem for tomorrow you thought as you lost yourself in him again.

Tomorrow came far too quickly for either of your liking.

You'd agreed that you needed to tell Theo; you didn't keep anything from him and Mattheo didn't either, so when Theo plopped into his seat beside you at breakfast Mattheo caught your eye nervously across the table.

"Stellina" Theo said by way of greeting, as he reached for his food.

"Ciao orsacchiotto" Big bear you said, falling into your childhood nicknames for each other.

But regardless of how many times Mattheo nodded encouragingly towards Theo and tangled his foot with yours under the table you simply couldn't find the words to tell him what you'd done.

"Hey, I made out...and then some… with Mattheo for over an hour last night three feet from your bed." "Hey, I want to date your best friend who you've blindly trusted with me for seven years." "Hey, let me give you a mental image you can never unsee."

Yeah...

There was no good way to say it.

And before long, breakfast was over and you and Mattheo were trailing after Theo on the way to class.

"Why didn't you say anything?" he whispered nervously.

"I wanted to, I'm just ... scared."

"YOU'RE scared?!" he hissed.

"You're his best friend, you tell him!"

"You're his sister!"

"What's up with you two?" Theo asked as he turned to look at you.

You looked up at Theo and then back to Mattheo and cleared your throat.

"Teddy... Orsacchiotto" you said sweetly, smiling at him as his eyes narrowed, knowing far too well when you were trying to butter him up.

"I-I've been sleeping with Mattheo—"

And the moment the words left your mouth, you knew they were the wrong ones.

"—Wait! I mean!—"

"—WHAT?!" His eyes flashed to Mattheo. "What the fuck is the matter with you!" he asked, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and slamming him into the wall.

"No! Teddy! That's not what I—"

Crack.

Blood splattered as his fist connected with Mattheo's nose and you continued to shout, grabbing for Theo as Mattheo howled in pain, grabbing his nose.

"Teddy, stop!!!—"

"—She's my fucking sister!!—"

"—I didn't!! That's not!!—"

Theo tackled him to the ground.

Merda you thought. Shit.

You sat outside the infirmary between the two of them, one holding an icepack to his nose, the other to his knuckles, refusing to look at each other as you sighed and rubbed your temple.

"There wasn't any other phrase you could have used?" Mattheo asked, his voice muffled behind the bloodied ice pack as he looked down at you. He looked awful but he was smirking.

"I'm sorry, I just—"

He reached for your hand and winked at you, clearly teasing you as he wound his fingers in yours.

"I'm sitting right here" Theo mumbled in response to the gesture.

You moved to pull your hand away but Mattheo held onto it.

A few people walked by and you all quieted for a moment.

"My fucking sister, dude. Really?" Theo sighed as he carded his hand through his hair, still refusing to make eye contact with either of you.

Two minutes passed. Three.

"Look. If you hurt her—" he threatened.

And your face broke into a smile, giddy, knowing that that warning was the closest thing to a blessing either of you could hope for.

"—I would never" Mattheo said quickly, matter-of-factly, in a way you knew was true even before he'd said it as he pulled your hand to his lips and kissed it.

You glowed up at him, your cheeks pink with the anticipation of exactly what this would mean for the two of you before you turned and wrapped your arms around Theo's stiff shoulders.

taglist: @kenjikishimotoswifey @mattiesgf @sleepiibunniiii @darlingshecried @girllblogging777 @foivetimesacharm @clar2aa @broadwaybaby123 @slytherinscreamqueen @loverliner @smut-anarchy @locknco @wybieivy @itznotsophia @cipheress-to-k-pop @aur0ral1ghts

[ilovemilestellersmoustache]

is it chill that you’re in my head?

Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolts!reader

Summary: You’ve been alone all your life so moving into a tower of people who considered each other family wasn’t ideal, already not being able to spark a connection with anyone you were alone most of the time searching for the feeling of home… Then again do you really know what that feels like? Maybe not until a late night accidental meeting with the most timid member fills you with nothing but these so called sparks.

WC: 2.1K

The Thunderbolts Tower didn’t exactly feel like home.

It had walls, sure. Expensive ones. Reinforced steel, soundproof panels, panic rooms tucked behind sliding concrete. It had amenities too, an espresso machine Yelena had nearly gone to war for, a rooftop garden Alexei insisted needed “more nature” a gym Bucky used at 3 a.m. when he thought no one was watching.

But it didn’t feel like home. Not in the way people always talked about it in books and movies. The way they described a home as something you felt comfortable in, regardless the place. This… This place to you was shelter. A bunker. A glorified holding cell for the world’s sharpest, most broken tools.

Home had always been a delicate concept to you. Something you brushed against in dreams and woke up aching from.

You weren’t built for places like this. Maybe if really was just shelter to the rest of the team, you wouldn’t feel like you were alone.

You moved like smoke and silence, with eyes that had seen too much and lips that rarely curled into something that resembled softness. You haunted hallways instead of walking them. Shadows slipped around your shoulders like a second skin. And even though no one ever said it out loud, you knew what they whispered when they thought you couldn’t hear:

“She doesn’t sleep.”

“She never eats with us.”

“Doesn’t even flinch when Alexei sets off the dummy mines…”

You weren’t cruel. Just… quiet. Always on the outside looking in. Ava was the only one who tried sometimes passing you energy drinks like peace offerings, leaning against walls near you without pushing conversation. Even then, her ghost skin sometimes glitched if your gaze lingered too long.

So you stayed to yourself. Up late. Headphones in. Music low enough to hear your own heartbeat, just loud enough to drown the past.

Until that night.

⸻

It was the kind of night that pressed against the windows like breath, thick and humid, the air barely cool enough to pass for midnight. The city was still awake below, glowing soft and gold, like someone forgot to dim the lights before sleep.

Bob Reynolds hadn’t meant to leave his room.

He was used to the nightmares by now. Most of them started the same, the Void dragging his name across black skies like a warning, cold sweat trickling down his neck, the echo of screams that had long since blurred into static. He usually stayed curled up on the edge of his mattress, white knuckled and wide eyed, talking himself back from wherever he was. The Other.

But tonight, the weight was heavier. He could feel it clawing under his ribs, thick as tar, breathing down his neck.

So he ran.

Barefoot, hoodie half zipped over his threadbare sleep shirt, hands still trembling from the remnants of the dark. He didn’t even realize he was heading for the roof until he felt the air shift. Third floor, westside. The door creaked open, and—

There you were.

Perched on the ledge knees tucked to your chest, one headphone in, hair stirring slightly in the breeze, swimming in dark jeans and sweater a colour of blue he’s never seen. The moonlight poured over you like it had been waiting all night just for this moment, soft silver across your cheekbone, dancing along your collarbone. You looked like a memory. Or maybe something from one of his dreams, the rare kind that didn’t end in screaming.

You barely glanced at him.

Not startled. Not wary. Just… curious. Then you looked back at the skyline like he was nothing more than another part of the silence.

Bob froze.

He hadn’t seen you like this. No one had. You were a myth at best. A name on a file at worst. A flash of movement out of the corner of a bloodied mission. But this? This was something else.

Still, you didn’t move.

Didn’t disappear into smoke or shadows. Didn’t pull a knife or raise an eyebrow or ask what he was doing there.

Instead, you pulled one earbud out, a gentle movement, deliberate, like offering someone the last piece of chocolate without saying a word.

“…Can’t sleep either?”

Your voice was softer than he expected. Nothing like the precision of your fighting or the clipped orders you gave on missions. It was fragile. A little sad. And something about it made something in him crack.

“…No,” Bob said quietly. “Nightmares.”

You nodded once. Just enough to say I know.

And then you did something that made his heart ache a little.

You patted the space beside you.

He walked over slowly, cautiously, as if he might spook you. But you didn’t flinch. Didn’t vanish.

And when he sat beside you, legs dangling off the ledge, hands tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie… he realized something.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, he wasn’t the most dangerous thing in the room. (At least felt like it)

But for the first time, that didn’t terrify him.

It comforted him.

Because beside you, wrapped in moonlight and a silence that felt like safety, Bob Reynolds didn’t feel like a monster.

He felt human.

And somehow, that felt like the most dangerous thing of all.

⸻

It became a pattern.

Not the kind that wore out, not the kind that dulled with repetition… But the kind you traced with your fingers in the dark, over and over, just to remind yourself it was real.

Every night, like clockwork, around 1:30 a.m., your phone would buzz. Your phone lights up your nightstand in the black more than the actual lamp.

Roof?

Just one word. No punctuation. No signature. As if he knew and maybe he did, that anything more might scare it all away.

You never replied.

You didn’t have to.

Five, sometimes ten minutes later, you’d climb the stairs barefoot, hoodie half zipped, music still humming low in one ear. There was never an announcement, no grand entrances. You just… appeared. Like the breeze. Like the hush before rain.

Bob would already be there. Perched on the ledge or leaned back against the wall, that soft, faraway look in his eyes like he was already a million miles into his own head.

And you’d sit beside him, not touching, not asking.

Just existing together in the quiet.

It became your rhythm.

Two ghosts in the night, finding each other again and again.

You talked.

Just thinking of all the fun things you guys could do. Sometimes it was nonsense, constellations, movie soundtracks and why Alexei even insisted on a garden if he won’t tend it. Other times, it cut deep. He told you about the Void and how it felt like being strangled by your own reflection. You told him about the first life you ever took, how the blood didn’t scare you, but the stillness afterward did.

“I didn’t flinch,” you’d whispered, like it was a confession.

He hadn’t judged. Just nodded, like he understood that kind of stillness.

He told you he liked your laugh.

The way it caught in your throat and crinkled the corners of your eyes, like you were surprised by the sound.

You told him you liked his voice low, patient, like warm hands wrapping around your ribcage and holding everything inside together.

And slowly, so slowly, something inside you began to thaw.

Like frost giving way to spring.

⸻

By daylight, you were still the same.

Guarded. Sharp edged. Vanishing before anyone could hold on too long. When John teased or Alexei roared with that too-loud, too-big laughter, you smirked, nodded, and slipped out of the room like you’d never been there.

But Bob noticed the changes.

The subtle ones.

Sticky notes on the fridge reminding him to get the oat milk he liked. An extra tea packet slipped beside his thermos. Your hair which you’d always tied back with clinical precision, now down more often, curling in the wind just like it had that night on the roof when he’d told you it looked soft.

He noticed everything.

And your phone…

It didn’t just light up your nightstand anymore.

It lit up you. Your heart. Your whole damn being.

Sometimes, when you were alone in the lull between missions, curled on top of too-starched sheets, you found yourself replaying his voice like a secret song you weren’t supposed to know the lyrics to.

You caught yourself smiling.

“Sometimes I wonder,” you whispered to no one in particular, “when you sleep… are you ever dreaming of me?”

You hated that you felt like this.

You weren’t supposed to.

This was a foreign feeling. Truth be told you didn’t really know what it was, just that you’ve never felt this good, this nice. People like you didn’t get nice. Didn’t get soft or safe or whole. You were a blade, and blades didn’t get to love things. They cut them.

But still. You relay the echoes of his footsteps coming up the roof stairs. You wanted long nights with his hands up in your hair… Just want him to stay with you and not share him.

Every night when that single word lit up your screen, your heart raced like it had something to lose.

⸻

And then came the night everything shifted.

You’d been laughing, breathless, aching laughter about nothing at all. Something he said. Or maybe it was the way he’d said it. His hoodie was too big on him, his hair curling at the ends from rooftop humidity, his eyes glowing soft in the starlight like he’d swallowed a sunbeam.

And suddenly, your laughter faded.

You just looked at him.

Watched him in that long, quiet way that made the air feel thinner, like the moment itself was fragile and sacred. You memorized every inch, the scar on his chin, the faint stubble on his jaw, the way he sat so still like he didn’t want to startle the peace between you.

Your voice barely made it above the wind.

“Sometimes…” you breathed, “when I look into your eyes… I pretend you’re mine.”

The silence cracked.

“All the damn time.”

Bob blinked. Like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.

You laughed, soft, nervous, filled with static.

“Is it cool I said all that?” you rushed. “Is it chill that you’re in my head? I know this is all… delicate. But I think about you all the time. And I know you probably don’t feel—”

You didn’t get to finish.

He kissed you.

Gentle. Unrushed. The kind of kiss that felt like a question. Like he was afraid of breaking something sacred.

And when you kissed him back, your hands in his hair and his breath catching against your lips it didn’t feel like fire.

It felt like falling.

Like walking into the sea and letting it swallow you whole.

When you finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.

“I’ve been dreaming about you,” he whispered.

“Every night. Even when I’m awake.”

⸻

Yelena was the first to know.

You came to training the next morning late, hair slightly windblown, smile lingering at the edges of your lips like a secret you weren’t quite ready to share.

“She’s glowing,” Yelena muttered to Ava, who gave a smirk that said finally.

Even Bucky, ever the skeptic, raised an eyebrow when he saw Bob in the hallway.

“So…you and our little shadow, huh?”

Bob turned the color of his hoodie. But he didn’t deny it.

No one teased. Not really. Maybe they all understood something unspoken:

That sometimes, the softest things grow in the harshest places.

That even steel can bloom if you leave it in the right hands.

⸻

Now, some nights, you still go to the roof.

But you don’t leave alone.

Bob’s already there, hoodie sleeves too long, arms open, waiting like you’re the only thing he’s ever waited for.

You crawl into them like you belong there. Because maybe, just maybe, you do.

The city hums below.

The stars blink above.

And somewhere between everything you were taught not to want and everything you’ve dared to feel, you realize—

Your reputation’s never been worse.

But when he looks at you like you hung the damn moon?

He must like you for you.

And no, you can’t promise this will last. You can’t promise you’ll survive this world with all your pieces intact. You don’t know if happy endings are real for people like you.

But maybe that’s what makes it matter.

The most delicate thing in the world…

is choosing someone in the dark,

and letting them love the parts you were sure no one ever would.

And he does.

Night after night, word after word, kiss after kiss.

Bob Reynolds loves you like it’s the only truth left in the world.

And you’re finally letting him.

⸻

A/N: Uh so if theres like a part here where it looks like its missing a paragraph or sum lemme know bc my tumblr has been acting nuts and i had to lay this out like 100 times and i genuinely cannot read this one more time again I’m crashing out

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Alpha ATEEZ x Assistant Omega Reader

Warnings: omega reader, alpha ateez, scenting, heats, ruts, slow burn, eventual smut, forced command, more to come!

When Y/n accepts a position as assistant to alpha K-pop group ATEEZ, she's prepared with professional skills and scent blockers to hide her omega status. What she's not prepared for is the immediate, inexplicable connection she feels with all eight members—a resonance that defies her careful boundaries.

As Y/n becomes eerily attuned to their needs, her suppressed omega nature begins to emerge: purring for the first time in years, responding to alpha growls, feeling safe in ways she never has before. When a protective incident reveals the depth of the members' attachment to her, Y/n must confront the possibility that what binds them together is something ancient and profound.

<<Previous Next>>

Masterlist Ko-Fi☕️

Chapter 6: Unexpected Reactions

The conference room at KQ Entertainment had become your second home over the past three days. Surrounded by multiple laptops, tablets, printed schedules, and enough empty coffee cups to build a small fortress, you'd been working tirelessly to accommodate the company's sudden decision to move up ATEEZ's comeback by two weeks.

It was a logistical nightmare that had sent the entire team into overdrive. Recording sessions needed to be rescheduled, choreography finalized ahead of schedule, concept photos reshoot, and promotional appearances rearranged. You'd been making calls since dawn, negotiating with everyone from music show producers to stylists to venue managers, all while trying to ensure the members wouldn't collapse from exhaustion under the compressed timeline.

"There has to be a way," you muttered to yourself, staring at the color-coded digital calendar on your main laptop while simultaneously texting the music video director on your phone. The current iteration of the schedule had the members recording final vocal tracks until 2 AM before a 7 AM choreography session the next day—clearly untenable.

You were so absorbed in your work that you didn't notice the conference room door open until a steaming mug of tea appeared in your peripheral vision, followed by Hongjoong's concerned face.

"When was the last time you took a break?" he asked, pulling out the chair beside you.

You glanced at your watch and winced. "What time is it now?"

"Almost 7 PM," he replied, his expression shifting from concern to mild alarm. "Have you been in here since morning?"

"I had that meeting with the promotional team at eleven," you offered weakly, accepting the tea with grateful hands. The warmth of the mug against your palms was a stark reminder of how cold the air-conditioned room had become—or perhaps how long you'd been sitting still, hunched over your work.

"That was eight hours ago," Hongjoong pointed out gently. "The others sent me to find you. We were worried."

A rush of warmth that had nothing to do with the tea spread through your chest. Even in the midst of their own hectic preparations, they had noticed your absence and been concerned.

"I'm fine," you assured him, taking a sip of the perfectly prepared tea—honey and lemon, exactly how you liked it. "I just need to figure out this scheduling puzzle. It's like trying to fit twenty-eight hours of activities into twenty-four hour days."

Hongjoong leaned closer, studying the complex calendar on your screen. His shoulder pressed lightly against yours, and you felt a shiver at his touch. 

"You're trying to do the impossible," he said after a moment, his voice tinged with admiration and concern in equal measure. "The company shouldn't have sprung this on us with so little notice."

"It's my job to make the impossible work," you replied with a small smile, trying to ignore how his proximity made your heart beat a little faster. After nearly a month of working closely with him and the others, you'd become more adept at managing these reactions, but never quite immune to them.

Hongjoong's eyes met yours, serious and intense. "Not at the expense of your health. The members and I had a discussion, and we agreed—we're not letting you burn yourself out trying to accommodate an unreasonable timeline."

Something in his tone made you pause. "What are you suggesting?"

"We've talked to Manager Minwoo. The members are willing to do the extra work, but some things simply can't be compressed further. The company will have to accept that certain elements might not be as polished as usual, or the date will need to be pushed back."

You shook your head, turning back to your laptop. "I can make it work. I just need to—"

"Y/n," Hongjoong interrupted, his voice taking on the gentle authority that marked him as the pack leader. "This isn't up for debate. We're not risking your wellbeing."

The collective "we" wasn't lost on you—nor was the protective edge in his voice. Ever since your arrival, you'd noticed how the members seemed to include you in their pack mentality, despite your professional role remaining clearly defined.

"At least let me show you what I've managed to work out so far," you insisted, gesturing to the screen.

Hongjoong relented with a sigh. "Fine. But then you're coming back to the house for dinner. Seonghwa's orders, not mine."

You couldn't help but smile at that. Seonghwa's nurturing instincts had become increasingly evident over the past weeks, especially when any of the members—or you—skipped meals or proper rest.

"Deal," you agreed, turning to the screen to walk him through your revised schedule.

---

Two hours later, after a surprisingly productive collaboration with Hongjoong—who proved to have a keen mind for logistics—you had a workable schedule that, while still demanding, no longer required superhuman endurance from anyone involved. You had also secured an agreement from the company to delay the music video release by three days, creating crucial breathing room in the most compressed part of the timeline.

"I think we've actually done it," you said, leaning back in your chair with a mixture of exhaustion and triumph. "It's tight, but it should work."

"I'm impressed," Hongjoong admitted, studying the final version. "You've somehow managed to accommodate almost everything without killing us all in the process."

"There are still a few compromises," you pointed out, indicating several highlighted sections. "The concept photo session will need to be faster than ideal, and we've had to cancel that variety show appearance."

"Small prices to pay for a schedule that actually allows for sleeping occasionally," Hongjoong replied with a wry smile. He stood, stretching his back after the long hours hunched over the conference table. "Now, as promised, dinner. Everyone's waiting."

Your stomach chose that moment to growl audibly, reminding you that you'd subsisted on nothing but coffee and a granola bar since breakfast. "I suppose I could eat," you conceded, gathering your essential items while leaving the rest for tomorrow.

The drive back to the ATEEZ residence was quiet, comfortable silence hanging between you and Hongjoong as the city lights blurred past the windows. You found your eyelids growing heavy, the past days of intense work catching up with you now that the immediate pressure had eased.

"You can rest," Hongjoong said softly, noticing your struggle to stay awake. "I'll wake you when we arrive."

Perhaps it was the exhaustion, or the sense of accomplishment from solving the scheduling crisis, but you found yourself letting your guard down enough to allow your head to rest against the cool window. The last thing you registered before drifting off was Hongjoong's jacket being gently laid over you, you thought you could smell his scent enveloping you in a cocoon of comfort, but you drifted off before your mind could process it. 

---

"She's completely out," you heard Hongjoong's voice murmur as consciousness slowly returned. "Has barely slept in days, from what I can tell."

"Should we wake her for dinner?" Seonghwa's voice, closer than Hongjoong's.

"I hate to disturb her, but she needs to eat," Hongjoong replied.

You blinked awake, momentarily disoriented to find yourself in the ATEEZ living room rather than the car. "I'm awake," you mumbled, pushing yourself upright on what you now realized was the living room couch. Hongjoong's jacket slid from your shoulders as you moved.

"Welcome back," Seonghwa said with a gentle smile, standing from where he'd been crouched near the couch. "Hongjoong said you solved the impossible schedule problem."

"Not impossible," you corrected, still blinking sleep from your eyes. "Just highly improbable."

"She's being modest," Hongjoong told Seonghwa. "She managed to rework everything while still ensuring we all get at least six hours of sleep most nights and keeping all the essential promotional activities."

Seonghwa's eyebrows rose, clearly impressed. "Well, that certainly deserves a proper meal. Everyone's in the kitchen—dinner's almost ready."

As you followed them toward the dining area, you became aware of the lively conversation and enticing aromas emanating from the kitchen. Despite your exhaustion, a smile tugged at your lips. There was something about returning to this house, to these people, that felt increasingly like coming home.

The members were scattered around the large kitchen island and dining table, various side dishes already laid out. San was in the middle of what appeared to be an animated story involving the choreographer, while Yunho and Jongho listened attentively. Yeosang was quietly arranging plates and utensils, and Mingi was helping Wooyoung carry a large pot of what smelled like kimchi jjigae from the stove.

"Look who I found," Hongjoong announced as you entered.

All eyes turned to you, and the genuine warmth in their collective gaze sent a flutter through your chest.

"The scheduling wizard returns!" Wooyoung exclaimed dramatically, setting down the pot to approach you with outstretched arms. "Tell me you've performed another miracle!"

"The schedule's fixed," you confirmed with a tired smile. "It's tight, but manageable."

Wooyoung's eyes widened comically. "You actually did it? You reorganized everything within the new timeline?"

"With some compromises," you added, not wanting to oversell your achievement. "And Hongjoong helped with the final version."

"That's it," Wooyoung declared, dropping to one knee in front of you with such theatrical suddenness that you couldn't help but laugh. "I'm buying a wedding ring this afternoon. What kind would you like? Pear? Oval? Princess cut?"

You giggled and felt heat rise to your cheeks at his over-the-top proposal, a reaction that had become commonplace with Wooyoung's exaggerated flirtations. "Don't be ridiculous. I was just doing my job."

"Your job was to manage our existing schedule, not perform actual time-bending sorcery," Wooyoung countered, remaining on one knee and taking your hand in his. "I'm serious about that ring. A woman who can bend time deserves diamonds."

Still laughing, you glanced up from Wooyoung's theatrical pose—and froze. He was looking at you with an expression you hadn't seen before. Behind the comedy and exaggeration that were so typical of him was something else entirely: a fond, heated gaze that held nothing performative in it at all. For a brief moment, the playful pretense fell away, and you glimpsed a raw intensity that made your breath catch in your throat.

Something stirred deep inside you—your omega responding to the alpha's attention in a way that bypassed all your careful restraint. A purr nearly escaped your lips before you caught yourself, swallowing the instinctive reaction that would have instantly revealed your true nature.

The moment hung suspended in the suddenly quiet kitchen, charged with something neither of you had anticipated. Wooyoung's eyes darkened slightly, as if he'd sensed the shift in your demeanor even without detecting your scent.

And then, from across the room, came a sound that shattered the moment entirely—a low, unmistakable growl.

All heads snapped toward the source. Mingi stood frozen by the kitchen counter, a look of horror spreading across his face as he realized what had just happened. The possessive growl had clearly emerged from his throat involuntarily, a primal alpha reaction he hadn't been able to suppress.

For several heartbeats, no one moved or spoke. The air in the kitchen felt suddenly charged with tension as the implications of that instinctive sound hung between you all.

Mingi was the first to break the stunned silence, his face flushing deeply as he bowed apologetically. "I'm—I'm so sorry," he stammered, clearly mortified. "I don't know why I—that was completely inappropriate. Please forgive me."

Wooyoung had risen to his feet, his playful demeanor completely vanished. The look he exchanged with Mingi was complex—not angry, but filled with understanding and something else you couldn't quite identify.

"No harm done," Wooyoung said after a moment, his tone deliberately light though his eyes remained serious. "Just alpha nonsense. Right, Mingi-yah?"

Mingi nodded stiffly, still looking deeply embarrassed. "Yes. Just... nonsense. I'm sorry, Y/n."

You found your voice, though it came out slightly higher than normal. "It's fine. Really. No need to apologize."

The tension in the room remained palpable until Seonghwa smoothly intervened. "The food's getting cold. Everyone, let's eat while Y/n tells us about this miracle schedule she's created."

Grateful for the redirection, everyone moved toward the table, though the atmosphere remained charged with unspoken questions. You took your usual seat between Yunho and Hongjoong, acutely aware of Mingi's gaze occasionally finding yours from across the table, his expression a mixture of mortification and something else—something that mirrored the intensity you'd glimpsed in Wooyoung's eyes moments before.

As dinner progressed, conversation gradually returned to normal, focused primarily on the upcoming comeback preparations. But beneath the mundane discussion of choreography adjustments and recording sessions lay an undercurrent that couldn't be ignored. Mingi's instinctive growl had revealed something that all of you had been carefully avoiding acknowledging—that the boundaries between professional and personal, between colleague and something more, were becoming increasingly blurred.

---

Later that night, as you prepared to return to the guesthouse, you found Mingi waiting hesitantly by the main door. His tall frame seemed uncharacteristically diminished, his shoulders slightly hunched as if trying to appear smaller.

"Y/n," he began when he saw you approach, his deep voice quieter than usual. "I wanted to apologize again for earlier. That was completely out of line."

You shook your head, trying to project a casualness you didn't entirely feel. "It's already forgotten, Mingi. Alpha instincts happen sometimes—I understand."

His eyes studied yours intently. "Do you? Understand?"

The question caught you off guard with its directness. Did you understand what had prompted that possessive growl? The implications of an alpha displaying territorial behavior over someone who was supposed to be just an employee?

"I..." you hesitated, unsure how to navigate this conversation without revealing too much of your own complicated feelings. "I know that living and working closely together can sometimes blur normal boundaries."

Mingi nodded slowly, though his expression suggested your answer hadn't quite addressed what he was really asking. "It's more than that," he said finally, his voice so low you had to lean slightly closer to hear him. "I think you know it's more than that."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. This was dangerous territory—acknowledgment of the strange connection that had been building between you and the members would make it harder to maintain the professional distance your position required. Not to mention the complications that would arise if they discovered your omega status.

"Mingi," you began cautiously, "whatever this is—whatever's happening—I work for you. For all of you. That creates certain... boundaries that should be respected."

"I know," he said, running a hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration. "Trust me, I know. And I've been trying to respect those boundaries. We all have. But today, when Wooyoung was looking at you like that, something in me just..."

He trailed off, clearly struggling to articulate the instinctive reaction he'd experienced.

"It's okay," you said softly, surprised by your own impulse to comfort him when you should probably be reinforcing professional distance instead. "We're all under a lot of pressure with the comeback timeline changing. Emotions are running high."

Mingi's eyes met yours, and the raw honesty in them made your breath catch. "It's not just the pressure," he said quietly. "It's been there since the beginning. For all of us. You must have felt it too."

The direct acknowledgment of what you'd been sensing—what all of you had been carefully dancing around for weeks—hung in the air between you. Denial seemed pointless; whatever this connection was, it had grown too strong to be dismissed as imagination or simple attraction.

"Yeah," you admitted finally, the words barely above a whisper. "But I don't understand it. And until I do—until we all do—I think we need to be careful."

Mingi nodded, a small, sad smile touching his lips. "Being careful is probably wise. I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry about the growl, but not sorry about caring about you. None of us are."

The simple sincerity in his words touched something deep within you, making your chest ache with an emotion you weren't ready to name. "Thank you," you said softly. "I care about all of you too. More than I probably should."

For a moment, you stood together in silence, the admission creating both a bridge and a boundary between you. Finally, Mingi stepped back slightly, giving you space.

"You should get some rest," he said. "Tomorrow's going to be busy with the new schedule implementation."

"You too," you replied, grateful for the return to more comfortable, practical territory. "Vocal recording at 9 AM, right?"

His smile widened slightly. "See? You already know our schedules better than we do ourselves."

"That's literally my job," you reminded him with a small laugh, the tension easing somewhat.

"Goodnight, Y/n," Mingi said, opening the door for you. "Sleep well."

"Goodnight, Mingi," you replied, stepping out into the cool evening air. 

As you walked the familiar path to the guesthouse, you couldn't help but replay the events of the evening in your mind—Wooyoung's heated gaze, Mingi's possessive growl, the charged atmosphere that had followed. Something was shifting in your relationship with the members, something that couldn't be easily dismissed or contained.

Your hand found its way to the scent blocker behind your ear, a habitual gesture of reassurance. The small patch felt suddenly inadequate protection against the tide of emotions and instincts that threatened to overwhelm the careful boundaries you'd established. If a mere look from Wooyoung could nearly trigger your omega purr, what might happen if your blocker failed? If your true nature was revealed to eight alphas who already seemed unnaturally attuned to you?

Inside the guesthouse, you leaned against the closed door, taking deep breaths to steady yourself. Your phone chimed with an incoming message—from

Hongjoong: Just wanted to say again how impressed we all are with the schedule solution. Get some rest. We're going to need your magic over the next few weeks.

The simple message, professional yet warm, centered you somewhat. Whatever was happening between you and the members—whatever invisible force seemed to be drawing you together—the work remained. The comeback, the schedules, the practical details that needed your attention.

For now, that would be your focus. The rest—the intense gazes, the possessive growls, the undeniable connection—would have to wait until you all had the space and clarity to understand what it truly meant.

Setting your phone aside, you prepared for bed, exhaustion overriding even your troubled thoughts. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges, but at least one thing had become clear tonight: whatever this connection was between you and the eight alphas of ATEEZ, it wasn't one-sided, and it wasn't going away.

---

The next morning

The atmosphere in the main house kitchen was noticeably different when you arrived to review the day's schedule with everyone. There was a heightened awareness, an underlying tension that manifested in small ways—Mingi's careful distance as he greeted you, Wooyoung's uncharacteristically subdued morning energy, the way conversations seemed to pause momentarily when you entered a room.

Last night's events had forced a partial acknowledgment of what had been building for weeks, and no one quite knew how to navigate the new terrain. The professional framework that had given structure to your interactions now felt insufficient to contain the complexity of what was developing between you all.

"Good morning," Hongjoong greeted you, sliding a coffee mug across the counter. "Ready for day one of the new schedule?"

"As ready as possible," you replied, grateful for his steady, practical approach. "I've already confirmed all today's appointments and sent the updated timeline to the production team."

"Efficient as always," he said with a warm smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. There was something guarded in his expression, a carefulness that hadn't been there before.

Seonghwa appeared from the pantry, arms full of breakfast ingredients. "Y/n, good morning. I'm making a proper breakfast today—everyone needs fueling up for the intense schedule ahead."

You smiled appreciatively, noticing how he too seemed to be retreating into practical caretaking as a way to manage the charged atmosphere. "Can I help?"

"You can make sure everyone actually comes to eat," he replied, beginning to prepare the rice. "Especially Yeosang—he's been in his room since dawn working on something."

Grateful for the normal task, you nodded and moved through the house, knocking on doors and delivering breakfast summons. The routine activity helped settle your nerves, giving you a familiar role to inhabit while everyone adjusted to the shift in dynamics.

When you knocked on Yeosang's door, his quiet "Come in" drew you into a space you'd rarely entered before. Unlike the other members' rooms, which you'd become familiar with through morning wake-up calls, Yeosang was typically already awake and needed fewer reminders.

His room was predictably neat, with bookshelves lining one wall and a small desk where he sat, surrounded by notes and sketches. He looked up as you entered, his expression thoughtful.

"Seonghwa's making breakfast," you informed him. "He specifically requested your presence."

Yeosang nodded, setting down his pen. "I'll be there shortly." Instead of rising immediately, however, he studied you with that penetrating gaze that always made you feel as though he could see more than others. "Are you alright after last night?"

The direct question caught you off guard. Of all the members, Yeosang was perhaps the most observant but also the most reserved about personal matters.

"I'm fine," you assured him, aiming for lightness. "It was just a moment of alpha instinct. Nothing to worry about."

Yeosang's expression remained serious. "It wasn't just instinct," he said quietly. "Or rather, it was, but not the kind we usually talk about."

You hesitated, uncertain how to respond to his directness. "What do you mean?"

He seemed to consider his words carefully.

“We just,” he sighed. “We just care about you, a lot.”

Your heart rate quickened. Was he suggesting what you thought he was? "Yeosang, I—"

"You don't need to say anything," he interrupted gently. "I just wanted to make sure you were all right.” He kissed your forehead as he walked by and you felt a blush erupt.

“I’m telling Wooyoung you’re giving forehead kisses now,” you said in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere. 

Yeosang groaned playfully. “If you do that he’ll expect me to do it to him. I take it back.” He reached up and rubbed your forehead, as if to wipe away evidence.

As you giggle and head toward the kitchen, you felt something in your chest ease slightly. Yeosang's playfulness and gentle touch was comforting from the more serious member. 

In the kitchen, the full group had assembled around the table. Conversations flowed more naturally now, focused on the day's tasks and the challenges of the accelerated comeback schedule. If there were more careful spaces maintained between bodies, more conscious monitoring of casual touches, it was balanced by a new honesty in the glances exchanged, a wordless acknowledgment that something significant was unfolding among you.

As you took your seat between Yunho and Jongho, Mingi caught your eye from across the table. The shame and embarrassment from last night had been replaced by a quiet determination in his gaze. He offered a small, tentative smile that you returned, a silent agreement to move forward together—whatever that might mean.

Wooyoung too seemed to have found his equilibrium, his energy still vibrant but more contained, his usual flirtations tempered by a new awareness. When he passed you the side dishes, his fingers briefly brushed yours, the contact deliberate but respectful.

"The new schedule starts with vocal recording at 9 AM," you reminded everyone, settling into your professional role with relief. "Then dance practice at 2 PM, followed by the meeting with the concept team at 5 PM."

"And when do you sleep in this master schedule?" Seonghwa asked, his nurturing instincts clearly on high alert after yesterday's exhaustion.

"I've built in actual work hours for myself," you assured him. "No more all-nighters in the conference room."

"We'll hold you to that," Hongjoong said, his leader voice leaving no room for argument. "If any of us see you working past 10 PM, intervention measures will be taken."

"Intervention measures?" you echoed, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeosang will confiscate your devices," Wooyoung supplied cheerfully. "Jongho will physically carry you back to the guesthouse if necessary. And Seonghwa will stand guard to make sure you actually sleep."

The absurd image made you laugh despite yourself. "That seems excessive."

"Not from where we're sitting," Yunho countered, uncharacteristically serious. "You've been taking care of all of us. It's only fair we return the favor."

The simple statement, delivered without drama or spectacle, touched you deeply. That was what had been building all along, beneath the surface tension and attraction—a genuine care that flowed in both directions, a mutual protectiveness that defied the typical boundaries of a professional relationship.

"Thank you," you said softly, looking around at the eight alpha faces that had become so dear to you in such a short time. "I accept your concern, even if I think the threat of being carried to bed is a bit much."

Jongho shrugged, the youngest's serious expression breaking slightly. "I have to use my strength for something useful."

The laughter that followed broke the last of the morning's awkwardness, establishing a new equilibrium that acknowledged the deeper currents between you while allowing daily life to continue. Whatever was happening—whatever bond was forming among the nine of you—it wouldn't be sorted out in a day. For now, it was enough to know that you faced it together, with honesty and care.

As breakfast concluded and everyone began preparing to leave for the day's schedules, you found yourself surrounded by a sense of rightness that transcended the lingering questions and uncertainties. Whatever path lay ahead, these eight alphas had somehow become essential to your life, and you to theirs. The rest would unfold in its own time.

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